


Rebellious and Gold-Hearted

by disparity



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Depression, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Minor Fenris/Isabela, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, anti-religious
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-19 00:58:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8182774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disparity/pseuds/disparity
Summary: Anders runs a health clinic in the slums of Darktown. He's used to being cursed and reviled for the tattoos on his hands, the marks of a mage. Sympathy's a rare thing, and he's learned not to expect it. It keeps him alive, if not whole.Then he meets Hawke, and he starts to think maybe it isn't all bad, being broken. Maybe it just makes him fit better with other broken things. Maybe they could fit together, all their jagged edges slotted into one another, so they stop hurting anyone who comes in close.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I write this when I'm in the mood for something depressing, and I've got enough to post a proper chapter now, so here goes? I do have an outline, and I reckon it'll be about three or four chapters total. We shall see.
> 
> I want to clarify that the non-con does not happen within the story but is alluded to with a questionable amount of subtlety. Please take careful note of the tags as well.

Anders is accustomed to a certain amount of mistrust and fear for the marks on his hands. On his right, a symbol of the magi—a star for magic pressed into a hand that wields it, enclosed it the circle that keeps it caged. On his left, two marks—one that damns him, and one that saves his life. The first is a tower rising from Lake Calenhad, the Circle that branded him. The second is a cross inside a hand, the sign of a spirit healer.

He is in the habit of offering his left hand first. It says that he is here to help, not hurt, that his magic is the good sort that mends bones and stitches wounds, not the _other_ sort. Magic is all the same, really, and he can burn a man alive as easily as heal him; but he finds that people's beliefs are strangely pliant when only magic stands between them and death.

He needs permission, first. The Chantry insists on it. There was a young boy, once, unconscious and alone on the clinic's steps. He couldn't quite make it in, and there was no guardian or next of kin to say yes, save him, use the magic. Anders did it anyway, and he wasn't supposed to, but there are a lot of things Anders is not supposed to do. Some of the rules are arbitrary, and all of them are unjust.

That is what his boss says, _unjust_. It is his favorite word, and so Anders has taken to calling him Justice. It suits the doctor, a prodigy, younger than Anders and smarter in every way but one. Justice refuses to accept the way things are and hasn't learned that there are times you simply cannot fight back. There are times you have to say, yes, fine, I will accept what is offered. Nothing is ever enough for Justice, and Anders admires it, but it is incredibly _stupid_.

It is the reason Justice works in a clinic in Darktown instead of a proper hospital, where he might earn the sort of money his talent deserves. He causes trouble, and he says what he thinks, and those are two things that smart people should know not to do.

Anders has always considered himself clever. He would be smart enough to take his talent somewhere it'd be appreciated in coin, if he had the chance. But there are marks on his hands, and the only chances he has are the ones he's fought for. It has been years of fighting, and he is done now, because even if he doesn't have what he wants, he has enough.

 _Say it again,_ he insists, _it is enough_. It is because it has to be. This is the way things are. This is it, and there is nothing else, and he is done.

It is another long day, a lifetime of long days, and there is so little to tell them apart. He only knows today, and today there is a beautiful woman with bruises and broken bones, and when he lifts his marked hands and asks, “Do you mind?” she cries and says, “Please.”

He knows it is different, when there's pain. He knows the sudden willingness to break the rules, and he knows the regret that follows. He waits for it, braces himself, because it's going to hurt this time. It'll hurt coming from her because she dares to be lovely when everything around her is bleak.

He cleans her up, and she doesn't speak. He knows better than to ask how his patients came by their injuries, but he finds himself curious. He _wants_ to ask, because he wants to know her. He moves as slowly as he can in the silence, quickly running out of excuses to make her stay.

Then she asks, “How long has this clinic been here?” and her voice is quite nice when it's not screaming in pain.

“Six years,” he says, slowly cleaning out the shallow cuts on her arm. There are bits of glass in the tray, small pieces, the kind that slip beneath the skin and tear you up from the inside.

It's quiet for a moment before she asks, “How long have _you_ been here?”

“Six years,” he repeats, his mouth quirking upward in some poor imitation of a smile. “I opened the clinic with a friend of mine.”

“Why?” He glances at her, and their eyes meet, and she smiles. “Sorry,” she says. “I should let you concentrate.”

He shakes his head. “It's fine.” He takes out a fresh bandage, watching his fingers as he works. “He was a big-shot doctor with some unpopular opinions, and I was...”

“A mage with a heart of gold?” she supplies. Then she chuckles. “Well, you still are, I suppose. It doesn't just go away.”

He bites his tongue, doesn't tell her about all the times he _wishes_ it'd go away. Instead he asks, “You think I have a heart of gold?”

“I'd like to believe someone does.”

“And you've chosen me?” he asks wryly.

“As if I don't have I don't have plenty of reasons.” He snorts, and he can hear the smile in her voice when she says, “I'll list them, shall I? One, you opened a free clinic in Darktown; two, you didn't run screaming after a month; three, that's not the Kirkwall Circle mark on your hand.”

His heart sinks, but he says, “So?” as if being called out as a runaway isn't terrifying, no matter how long he's had to get used to it.

“So,” she says, “you're an illegal mage who chooses to risk discovery by healing people in the slums instead of hiding his magic like any sensible person.” He's about to retort, but she plows on, “Now, why would you do something so irrational? One, you're insane; two, you're a rebel; three, you have a heart of gold.”

“And what made you pick the last one?” he asks, and he thinks that might just be a real smile fighting with the tense purse of his lips.

“I didn't.” When he glances at her again, he sees her grinning smugly. She shrugs and says, “I picked all three.”

He laughs, and it surprises him. She shows her teeth in a wide, guileless grin. “Caught you, didn't I?” she asks, though it's not a question. “Bet you didn't think you were so easy to read.”

“I resent that,” he says, but he doesn't.

“Resent whatever you like. I'll still be right.”

“Is there any use in telling you that you're wrong?” He's finished patching her up, and he doesn't want to be. He fiddles with his tools. “Or will your ego just drown it out?”

She lets out a short, loud laugh, and it hits him in the chest like a battering ram. “My ego's a noisy thing,” she remarks, sliding off the cot.

She's noticed that they're finished now, and he hoped she wouldn't, but she's proven to be clever. He stands with his back to her, waiting for her to leave on her own, because she's the type. Stumble in, tell a few jokes, make him feel like his life's more than a string of tedious days, and then walk right out of it.

He hears her gathering her things and starts to clean his tools, because that's the end of it. He doesn't expect to feel her fingers on his hand—his right hand, the _wrong_ hand—and he doesn't expect her to peel the glove off and press her lips to the mark, a gesture of rebellion, grounds for arrest and questioning if anyone saw it.

Anyone but the two of them, a man with magic in his hands and a woman with kindness in hers. Both equally damning.

***

He doesn't hope to see her again, because it would mean she's hurt again, and he can't wish for that. He doesn't make wishes anyway, and if he did, he'd keep them to himself. He wouldn't tell Justice, who notices the way he smiles when he thinks of her and asks if he's met someone. He's half-convinced he didn't meet her, the impossible woman with the clever lips that are likely responsible for getting her into the three-cracked-ribs, glass-in-your-arm kind of trouble.

He already knows he'll never see her again, so he doesn't waste time on it. It's not as if he doesn't have time to waste; he has years of it, and he doesn't even want them. But he knows the sort of pain that comes after hope, knows how it burrows in your bones until you ache all over, every move a dirge of reasons to give up, give in, give anything to make it stop.

When she comes in with a banged-up face and broken fingers, hauled by a bulky man who bears her half-hearted kicks of protest like they're more irritating than painful, he freezes. He hasn't done that since med school, thought he'd seen too much by now to be surprised. But he is surprised, and Justice barks at him to get his head together before he takes her into an exam room and sets her bones.

The man who came in with her refuses to leave her side, and he sits in a cheap plastic chair with his arms crossed. The silence between them is thick and tense, and he plucks at it, “Don't ever fucking do that again.”

“As if you have any right,” she bites back, wincing as the anger twists her bruised face.

“I have every right!” he shouts. “You're _reckless_. If Father could see you-”

“Well he can't, can he?” She doesn't wait for a response. “Just go home, Carver.”

He snorts humorlessly. “Right, and I'll just trust you're not gonna find another Qunari to punch on the way back.”

“If you feel so bad about it, then why don't you go and staple your mouth shut for penance?”

“Fuck you,” mutters Carver. He kicks the chair after he stands up, and Anders purses his lips. “Do me a favor, mage-boy?” he says, and Anders thinks this man is at least ten years younger than him. “Freeze her lips together. And then set her on fire.”

She doesn't speak for awhile after that, and Anders keeps the silence. Hearing that this woman, a bright spot in a torrent of identical months and years, got into a fistfight with someone from one the most notorious gangs in Kirkwall startles him. He has no right to be startled—he knows almost nothing about her, save that she showed him an uncommon kindness—but he is, because he hadn't thought about her existing outside of the small window he'd seen her through. He never thought to catch another glimpse, and now here she is, living and breathing and smiling as if they're all perfectly normal things to do.

“Sorry about him,” she says, and there's pain somewhere in the curve of her lips. “And, well... me.” She chuckles under her breath. “I've a thing for words. It gets out of hand sometimes.”

That explains nothing at all, but she's opened the door, so Anders asks, “Is that what happened with the Qunari?” Or maybe she didn't, because she just twists her mouth apologetically, and he backtracks, “Well, at least tell me you won.”

She huffs breathily, sounding tired when she says, “I won today.”

Anders kisses her hand before she leaves, and it is a victory.

***

When she shows up the third time, he starts to wonder if they're a pair of rebellious, gold-hearted lunatics, and he thinks he understands why she said it that way. It sounds nicer than sullen doctor, or violent criminal. He's not sure it matters what's in his heart, or hers, as long as they are kind to one another.

He wants to ask what she's done to earn a broken ankle and road burn, but he doesn't think she'll answer, so what he asks is, “Did you win this time?”

She laughs and says, “I, uh... No, I really didn't.” She shrugs her unwounded shoulder and proclaims, “I lost a fight with the ground.”

“Tough opponent,” he remarks.

“Yeah,” she agrees, “still got pieces of him in my shoulder. Like little souvenirs.”

“I hope they serve as a reminder that human flight is impossible.”

She hums. “That's never stopped me from trying.” He tuts disapprovingly, and she's quiet for a minute before she turns her head to face him. “You don't think I could do it? If I wanted?”

“If anyone could,” he concedes, “it'd be you.”

Part of him believes it. He's seen things that ought to be impossible, and she is one of them. The weight of it doesn't hit him until the silence settles, and he quickly fumbles for something to soften it, take away all the edges that make it mean something, because they might hurt.

“Although, as your healer, I can't in good conscience encourage any potentially fatal or otherwise dangerous activities.”

“I don't mind dangerous things,” she says thoughtfully, and her voice turns wicked as she adds, “They have their perks.”

“Is the adrenaline really worth it?” he asks, doubtful.

She snorts. The movement pulls at her wound, and he carefully guides her back into place. “I don't do it for the adrenaline,” she says. “Contrary to poplar belief, I don't actually go _looking_ for trouble. Things just sort of... pile up. You know?”

“I do,” he says, only to keep her talking.

“And I can never quite understand...” She pauses, then asks, “You won't laugh at me for this, will you?”

“I can't promise that.”

She scoffs and says nothing, perhaps waiting for him to take it back. When he doesn't she says, “Well, I'm saying it anyway, and if you laugh, I'll shove one of these things up your ass.”

He reaches up to pluck the pair of tweezers from her hand and moves the rolling stand of instruments out of her reach. She scoffs again. He exhales through his nose, and she cranes her neck to give him an offended look. He gives a placid, innocent smile in return and continues to pluck crumbled asphalt from her shoulder.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have terrible beside manner?”

“Yes.”

She makes a stuttered noise, then finally laughs. “You're supposed to be nice, you know. Not make fun of your patients.”

“I am a qualified physician, not a therapist,” he deadpans.

That earns another laugh, and he thinks he could do this all day if this is what it gets him. She's struggling not to move, and he has to brace her firmly so he doesn't dig into her skin by mistake.

“I'm going to tell you,” she says again. “And if you laugh, I will consider it a victory.”

“You are aware that you're stalling, right?”

“As if you're not,” she accuses, and before he can respond she says, “Never mind that. I don't go looking for trouble.”

“You said that already.”

“Because I don't,” she insists. “I try to stay on top of everything. I set rules and enforce structure and anticipate problems, but no matter _what_ I do, everything just ends up falling to shit at some point. Which happens. That's fine; it's life. But I just can't see how it _gets_ there. That's the problem.”

“If you can understand how it happened,” he says, cooperating now, “you think can prevent it next time.”

“Exactly!” She moves again, and Anders moves her back in place. She doesn't seem to notice. “But it never works! I look back, and none of it makes any sense. It's like...” She hesitates, and Anders thinks this is the thing he must not laugh at, “It's like I'm standing at the top of this really tall building with no idea how the hell I got there.”

Anders pauses, hands hovering over her skin. “And you jump,” he says quietly.

“I have to jump,” she murmurs. “I can't see the stairs.”

There is nothing he can say to that, so he doesn't. He purses his lips and finishes cleaning the wound (he _was_ stalling) before bandaging it up. He tests her ankle again and is setting it in a brace when she says, abruptly, “It's not all bad, though.”

“Oh?” he says, just so she knows he's listening, as if he could ever not listen when she talks.

“Well, the adrenaline's still nice.” There is levity in her tone, a touch too stale. “And I get to come see you. So it's not all bad,” she repeats.

His mouth tenses against a smile as he fits the brace. “Don't go injuring yourself on purpose, now,” he admonishes.

“What,” she says cheekily, “too desperate?”

“If a woman like you has to resort to major bodily harm, I would be seeing a lot more patients.”

She laughs again, calls him, “Flatterer.”

“You were fishing for it,” he says knowingly.

She hums. “I was,” she admits. She hops down and tests the brace, looking up with a grin. “I don't feel a thing.”

“The highest order of compliment,” he remarks dryly.

And she laughs, and she holds his hand this time, caressing the mark gently with her thumb before she disappears again to climb her invisible stairs.

***

Justice knows who she is now. He doesn't _know_ who she is—in this part of town, no one has a name—but he heard them laughing and watched Anders walk her out and gave him a suspicious eyebrow, so that was that.

Justice isn't the type to rib him about his little grins when he remembers something she said or the way he hangs out at the reception desk to greet patients, in case she's among them. Justice is the type to deliver lectures about daydreaming and laziness, and that's exactly what he does, and Anders bears it by thinking _it's not all bad_.

He's not sure when the phrase becomes a lifeline. He clings to it when people turn away from his magic, when they spit and curse and would rather sweat out a fever than let him close enough to check their temperature. _It's not all bad,_ anymore. There's something good in the world, and even if it's rare, he knows it exists. It comforts him when he's alone, trying to catch a few hours of sleep between shifts, to think that she is out there, somewhere, alive and impossible and kind.

Then she is here, again, though he almost doesn't recognize her for all the blood. There is a different man with her, leaner than Carver and angrier if possible, who spits and calls him _mage_ as if it is the only thing about him that matters.

The clinic isn't equipped as well as a hospital would be, but their patients cannot afford a proper hospital, so Anders has made do. Without his magic, it would not be possible. Justice has always known this, and when Anders expends the last of his mana healing a woman who would have otherwise died, he takes Anders' shoulder in a comforting grip before collapsing on one of the cots in the back room.

Anders leaves her with her friend, who gives him a conflicted look and at last, a terse nod. It is often the closest thing to apology, or thanks, that he gets. He hopes he will have more than that today, until he realizes he's hoping for it, and then he stops.

He's not there when she wakes, but her companion comes to fetch him as he's finishing with another patient. The man walks silently by his side, and when they enter, she props herself up on her elbow and grins at them both. “Don't you ever sleep?” she asks.

“Not when there are beautiful, reckless women about,” he remarks, then has the sudden thought that her companion might be her _companion_ , and he turns only to meet a dismissive eye-roll. He is relieved, and he berates himself for it.

“I'm not reckless,” she pouts. Her companion snorts. “Pay him no mind,” she says. “He's just cranky because of his persistent monogamous urges.”

“We are not discussing my romantic pursuits.”

She quirks her mouth and says, “Of course not, Fenris. We are discussing the distinct lack of them.”

“The mage does not care about my love life,” says Fenris, and Anders takes the opportunity to redirect the conversation.

“The mage needs you breathe in and out slowly, please,” he says, placing a hand on her chest.

“He's a very polite mage,” she says.

Anders sighs. “Or a very tired one.”

“Oh?” She winks saucily. “You lack the stamina to keep up with me, do you?”

“You know,” he informs her, “most people are quiet and contemplative after a near-death experience.”

“She's never quiet,” says Fenris.

As if to accentuate the point, she lets out a loud, barking laugh. “I thought you enjoyed noisy women, Fenris.”

“For the last time, Hawke,” he replies, and Anders finally has a name; or codename, as the case may be, “it does not concern you.”

“Of course it concerns me,” says Hawke. “You two idiots are my best friends, and you need to get your shit together. I want a goddamn wedding.”

“Then have one yourself,” Fenris snaps. He turns to Anders, who's carefully looking over Hawke while they argue. “Will she be alright?”

“Of course I'll be alright,” she says dismissively. “I'm always alright.”

“She'll be fine,” he says to Fenris, and then to Hawke, “provided you don't lose any more fights with the ground in the next couple of weeks.”

“Couple of weeks?” she repeats with a pout. “I can't be out of commission for that long.”

Anders wonders, vaguely, what it is that she does. It isn't hard to imagine the type of work that would leave her bruised and bloodied so often, and he hasn't missed the pistol she tucks into the waistband of her jeans. Fenris carries a large black bag, and Anders has less than no desire to find out what's in it.

He tells her to be careful, and he doesn't think she'll listen, but there are certain words he has to say. _Rest, heal, stay out of trouble_. She smirks at the last one, and Anders knows that sooner or later, trouble will find her again.

 


End file.
